


We Must Rise When We Fall

by SlimeySquishySquid



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Dark, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:20:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21851986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlimeySquishySquid/pseuds/SlimeySquishySquid
Summary: Riddler turns towards the camera, presenting the removed cowl. He holds it in front of his chest before lifting it high. Here is the Edward he knows well, the gloating showman. “Ladies and gentlemen, The Batman!” he announces before stepping aside, allowing the live camera to take in Batman’s unmasked face.... His chin is taken in a tight grip, his face wrenched up and towards Nygma’s. “The savior of Gotham. Nothing more than a spoiled, rich, brat.”
Relationships: Selina Kyle/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 8
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Getting something written in 2019? Can it be? Yeah, I can hardly believe it either. 
> 
> I read a story where each chapter was a vignette a while back and I really liked the style. So naturally, I wanted to try it for myself. I don’t quite grasp the vignette style, but this is written differently from how I usually write so I’m proud of myself for trying something different despite the failure. Haha.
> 
> I just _had_ to do the “what if Batman’s identity is revealed” trope. Sorry. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> I ship Bruce with quite a few people, but I just want to tell everyone that though this isn’t a romance centric fic, the few romantic scenes focus on Bruce and Selena. They were the original OTP when I was a youngin’ so here is my ode to them.

The immediate reaction is more subdued than Bruce anticipated. Nygma does not gasp in surprise or cackle in triumph. Rather his eyebrows arch ever so slightly at Batman’s revealed identify before he turns towards the camera, presenting the removed cowl. He holds it in front of his chest before lifting it high. Here is the Edward he knows well, the gloating showman. “Ladies and gentlemen, The Batman!” he announces before stepping aside, allowing the live camera to take in Batman’s unmasked face. There’s no point in trying to bow his head and conceal himself. Two muscled goons stand at either side of him, gripping the dark locks of his hair and keeping his head upright. No hiding. He must face his doom head on.

He cannot hear the public’s reaction, of course, but he imagines their shocked visages, their cries and exclamations. Gordon will swear and shake his head, both bewildered at how he never figured it out, and unimaginably worried for Bruce’s safety. His cops – the ones that aren’t dirty – will be working overtime in their effort to find him. No matter how fast they work it will be too late.

Batman envisions all of the costumed freaks howling with glee, plotting their revenge against the billionaire that has thwarted them time and time again. Absently Bruce thinks that Joker will be livid with the Riddler. He shares his Bat with _no one_ , and now that the world knows who he is their precious game has changed. Bruce knows if he makes it out of this alive the clown will adapt, but he’s legitimately afraid at the depths of the maniac’s anger.

Alfred will have seen the unmasking and gone into action despite his heartbreak. Any valuables that aren’t needed right away – pictures of his parents, his boys’ belongings, Alfred’s silver - will be stored in the Bat Cave. All entrances to the Bat Cave within the manor will be locked down, inaccessible to anyone without the proper fingerprint, retinal scan, password, and voice recognition. His surrogate father will be rounding up his wards, his sons, though they will not want to go. Alfred has been given instructions to use any means necessary to get them out of Gotham, however, and Bruce has no doubt his oldest friend will follow through. Even though Alfred too, will be loath to leave. But Bruce has made him promise if a situation were to ever happen like this, and Alfred is loyal to a fault. His butler will take the boys (willingly or not) on a private jet to a remote island that Bruce purchased under another name. Untraceable. Millions in accounts that have no relation to the Wayne name will be of access to them. They will be safe. For the moment, at least. It is the only thing that gives him solace during this whole endeavor, the only thing that allows him to keep up Batman’s stony visage despite the mask being gone.

Barbara will also be brought with, on the promise that she can return once the dust settles. She is the least in danger of all his protégés, but Bruce cares for her, so she will go. Batgirl will likely resist, but as with the boys, Alfred’s been instructed to use force if necessary. The idea doesn’t sit well with him, but his family’s safety is more important than any moral misgivings he has. Gordon will be so distracted with finding Bruce Wayne that he won’t notice his daughter’s disappearance. If Gordon even has a passing suspicion he’ll push it away with the thought that young adults often go for lengths of time without checking in with their parents. By the time her father gets worried enough to check in with her, Barbara will be back in Gotham.

Selina will be asked to go with his family, but Bruce doubts she will take Alfred up on the offer. He doesn’t worry about her though. She’s always been resourceful, and his enemies have always viewed her as a target due to her obvious involvement with The Batman. This will not change things for her very much.

Riddler is stepping close to him now, but Bruce hardly pays him any mind, refusing to look at the other man. The villain’s hand grasps at his face with an air of possession and Bruce hates it, hates the way the man’s gloves feel on his fevered skin. His chin is taken in a tight grip, his face wrenched up and towards Nygma’s. “The savior of Gotham. Nothing more than a spoiled, rich, brat.” He spits the last few words and his hand clenches _hard_ on Bruce’s face.

* * *

Riddler’s goons wheel in a television, tuned to the local Gotham news. Vicki Vale is on the screen. He is the topic of conversation, naturally. Bruce does his best to tune the noise out and focus on the chains that encircle his body.

His utility belt is gone. The suit remains, sans the mask. It is a mockery, and Bruce is sure it’s intentional.

The drug that had first incapacitated him, that had allowed the Riddler to finally pin him down and keep him restrained, is still muddying his brain, making it hard to focus. He tenses his shoulders, pulls at the restraints. The chains hold firm, lack any slack. His legs are equally bound, forcing him into a kneeling position. Bruce’s knees ache, but Batman ignores the pain, forcing himself to concentrate on the room, looking for anything of use.

His enemies always make a mistake. This time will be no different.

* * *

His attention is captured by the television screen despite himself. Bruce estimates it’s been about five and a half hours since his unmasking when the broadcast station blares that there’s breaking news. His heart stutters, thinking for a moment that someone has caught one of his family. Instead they cut away to Wayne Manor. Flames engulf his home, and a crowd of hundreds stand outside the property. It is a mob, and they are fighting. The reporter on screen tells of a battle, waving their arm towards the fray behind them. There are those who would defend Bruce, say that The Batman is a hero. And then there are those seeking revenge on the caped crusader, taking out their frustration and anger on his home and those that support him.

A gun goes off, the reporter begins to shriek. Screams and exclamations fill the crackling air.

Another hour later and there are three confirmed dead. The GCPD cannot get the mob under control. More are getting injured.

More are dying.

* * *

His captor is cautious, knows that just because the playboy persona beneath the costume has been revealed that he is actually the dangerous Batman at his core. Another dose of the drug is administered. Bruce does his best to pull away, but the chains allow no movement and he can only growl and snarl as the needle breaches his skin.

Edward pets his head like he would a dog, ruffling the black strands. “We have a visitor on the way. And I’m sure your adoring audience will be eager to view the reunion.” He nods towards his henchmen, who are setting up the camera from earlier. The red light isn’t on. That means the feed is not live yet, and Bruce breathes a sigh of relief despite himself.

* * *

It doesn’t surprise him that Jonathan Crane is his first visitor. Riddler has always been impressed with the doctor’s intelligence, even if he doesn’t share his penchant for fear. Respect for his colleague would sway Edward’s decision on who would be the first to punish The Batman.

Bruce eyes Scarecrow warily, but he is more nervous about the camera, its red light harsh in the dim room. He knows thousands are watching and he doesn’t want to give them the satisfaction, doesn’t want to be entertainment fodder, doesn’t want innocents seeing him this way. But it is not his choice.

Scarecrow has always been a wiry, small man. What he lacks in physical prowess he makes up with his enormous intellect. Bruce knows that while Crane may not be able to do much in the way of hurting him physically (in comparison to others, like Bane or Kroc), his fear toxin will be able to play on his crumbling psyche far better than normal right now.

And while he knows his supporters will sympathize no matter the torture, it is a vast difference seeing your hero beaten but stoic versus afraid and sniveling like a broken child.

Nygma knows this too and Bruce hates him for it.

“Batman,” Crane greets, reedy voice soft but seemingly booming due to the quiet of the cell. Bruce does not answer, doesn’t even turn his gaze in the criminal’s direction. He is using a breathing technique he learned while on pilgrimage to Borobudur. It is keeping him calm despite the tendrils of fear that are snaking and creeping along the edges of his mind.

He is not used to feeling so helpless. Riddler has outdone himself. Normally Batman would have freed himself by now, would have found a weakness already. It rankles that this time is so different. He isn’t as prideful as Nygma – doesn’t need to lecture at length about his own intellect – but it bothers Bruce that he lost, that he was outsmarted.

A slap against his right cheek startles him. It doesn’t hurt, but it has its intended effect. Bruce’s cerulean eyes flick towards Crane. The villain smiles before he forces the same hand into Bruce’s face, his palm smashed up against Batman’s nose and mouth. He knows it’s useless to resist, but he tries to anyway, swinging his head wildly. Toxin gas is spewing out of Scarecrow’s sleeve, and despite Bruce’s best efforts he knows he’s inhaling the stuff.

The fear gas is slow to take hold. He’s built up a slight immunity over the years and Riddler’s drugs are still making him sluggish – they’re probably counteracting with the gas. But eventually the shapes of the objects in his prison begin to distort, elongate, and Bruce knows it’s over. He glances at the camera, glares at the red light, hating it more than he hates the Scarecrow.

More than he hates Riddler.

Crane steps in front of him, hands behind his back in a parody of Alfred’s own professional stance. He begins to pace, watching as sweat begins to bead on Bruce’s forehead, as he begins to shake in his bonds. “It’s so obvious now,” he says to Batman. Bruce didn’t think that the Scarecrow would like performing for an audience, so timid is the puny man, but it’s as if he’s showboating just for the sake of the viewers. “Parents killed by a thug, a child yearning for revenge. How foolish we all have been.” He chuckles, self-deprecatingly.

“Quite,” Riddler agrees from the shadows, white teeth gleaming in a feral grin. The two villains share a smirk when Bruce moans. Still trying to resist, but failing.

“What would your father think, to see you like this?” Scarecrow asks, continuing his pacing. Bruce tries to focus on the footsteps, anything to keep his mind grounded and engrossed in _real_ details.

“He would be so ashamed…Bruce,” his enemy hisses, and his name spoken by the degenerate is like acid on his eardrums. “You’re a failure. Nothing but a boy playing dress up.”

Bruce shakes his head, the only movement he can make with the chains so tight. His heart is beating fast, and no amount of meditating can keep him calm, keep his mind on track. He’s beginning to see the shadows move; dark, jagged shapes are growing out of the darkness.

He heaves a deep breath, refusing to whine, but feeling the keening wail stirring in his chest. Crane is still talking, and his voice is getting louder, refusing to let Batman ignore him. “Your mother wouldn’t love you, Wayne. You’re pathetic.”

And just as they’ve appeared _every_ time Scarecrow has successfully poisoned him with the toxin, so do they come now. His parents are watery images at the edge of the room. They’re wearing what they were the night they were killed. Bruce struggles not to stare at them, _knows_ they aren’t real. But he can’t help it. Desperate to drink them in, Bruce turns to look.

“Bruce…” It’s Crane’s voice crooning at him, but it’s his father’s mouth that is moving.

His father takes a step in time with the Scarecrow’s, the sound of their footsteps in sync. No, no his father isn’t really there. He can’t actually make a sound. But Bruce is losing the thread of sanity amidst the haze of drugs.

Beads fall to the ground, the pearls hitting with more weight than is actually possible. The noise is deafening. His mother’s necklace has broken. Bruce begins to tremble, terror seizing his heart. He no longer sees the Scarecrow. Instead it’s a man garbed in black, shaking from alcoholism or drug withdrawal. Maybe both. He’s demanding money, several beads from his mother’s necklace clutched in the hand that isn’t holding the unsteady gun.

His father steps in front of his mother, shielding her. Bruce heaves in a deep breath. He knows what’s going to happen but his voice is lost. His throat has constricted. He can’t do anything to save them. He’s trying to move forward, but something is holding him still. Why can’t he _move_?!

“Mother!” he finally screams, and his voice is a broken, wretched thing. She looks at him, fear making her pale. Like a ghost.

His father is frantic, moving towards the gunman. “Bruce, stay back!” he yells.

He knows it’s going to happen, but the shot of the gun still fills him with horror. His father falls first, and Bruce is bawling for him, repeating his name over and over. It doesn’t change the outcome. It never does. His mother falls next. His parents’ lifeless eyes stare up at him, and Bruce can’t get to them. Again, he’s struck with the terrifying sensation of not being able to move.

The thug remains, however. That’s new. Bruce recoils when the killer reaches for him. He even attempts to bite when the criminal grabs at his face. His cheeks are cradled between both hands, strangely gentle. The gun is gone, but he can feel his parents’ sticky blood on the man’s hands. He can’t bring himself to look up into the murderer’s face.

Bruce is crying, sobbing. He can’t get away, and the killer mocks him by wiping at his tear tracks with his thumbs. “You don’t need to fight anymore, Bruce. Just give in.”

* * *

When the toxin wears off, he’s exhausted. There’s no need for Riddler to drug him again. He’s so naturally drained that escape is the last thing from his mind. He belatedly realizes that the figure of his parents’ murderer had been Scarecrow standing over him. His mind had just substituted one mad man for another.

He sags in his chains, but they don’t allow him respite. They’re too tight, meant to keep him upright. His muscles scream and the tension throughout his episode of terror makes them ache like no other pain he’s experienced before. Bruce tries to use calming breathing methods, but his nerves are so frayed that his breaths are coming out like a panicked animal’s, so he stops.

* * *

He finds a fitful hour of sleep. When his eyes flutter open Nygma is there, sitting in a plush armchair just…watching him. Bruce would shudder in revulsion if it wasn’t so expected. All of his adversaries are insane, and their quirks don’t shock him anymore.

“Riddle me this,” his foe says without preamble. “I’m always around, but never seen. I’m often avoided, but never outrun. I might-“

“Death,” Bruce interjects, answering the riddle before it’s finished. It is the first time he’s spoken since being captured. It feels good when he sees the bitter rage on his enemy’s face. Nygma hates to be interrupted.

Riddler rises from his chair, clutching his question mark cane. He swings at Bruce, catching him in the ribs. The Batsuit blocks the worst of the blow, but he’s unable to shy away, so it still hurts. Bruce grunts from it, while Riddler seethes before him. “If you’re so eager for death, _Batman_ , then who am I to deny you?” he hisses before swinging again.

The beating doesn’t last long, but it is painful enough to remind Bruce that it would be in his best interest not to goad his captor when he’s completely at his mercy.


	2. Chapter 2

He’s left alone the rest of the night with nothing more than the pain in his side, the excruciating ache of his muscles, and the television to keep him company. Bruce tries to ignore what’s on the screen. But eventually he’s sucked in. Jack Ryder is an animated host, after all. Experts from across the country have been called in, and several at a time occupy the screen. They all argue about Batman, about Bruce Wayne. His motivations, his intentions, if he’s a good man or not, if this is real or a hoax. Bruce is almost amused by it all.

He tries to analyze his emotions in regard to Wayne Enterprises. It’s been mentioned on the news several times. Stocks are plummeting, with sudden surges in an effort to hang on. The public and the market can’t decide what this all means for his business.

But he knows. Wayne Enterprises will fall. It is in its death throes now.

Bruce tries to feel sorrow at what he’s done to his family’s legacy. But what he really mourns is the loss of Batman.

* * *

He’s increasingly beginning to feel the need to visit the restroom. It’s such a basic need that The Batman almost doesn’t recognize the sensation at first. He has an incredible bladder, and never during the night does he feel the urge. The sun is rising however, and usually at this time Batman is returning to the cave, ready to slumber. Bruce Wayne is back in control, and he is but a man. A man with very human needs.

Riddler does not return all that morning, and by afternoon Bruce is ready to burst. He realizes this must be part of his enemy’s game. Humiliation. So Bruce doesn’t bother to hold it anymore. He has nothing to be ashamed of. It’s a basic bodily function. And he’ll enjoy making Riddler deal with the mess.

* * *

Late that evening his captor reappears. He is cool and pompous again, all traces of the previous night’s anger gone. But he takes one sniff when entering the room and then waves in his lackeys. Bruce doesn’t resist when they drug him and release him from his bonds. A hiss escapes at the numbness in his muscles. He’s been bound in that position for so long. The henchmen lift him up, dragging him towards a shower room. Bruce tries to hypothesize about where he is, but the drugs are beginning to work and his head slumps forward, too exhausted to hold it upright.

Riddler’s fingers are deft as he finds the seams in the Batsuit. Bruce doesn’t bother resisting. There’s really no point with the drug slowing his movements. And he’d rather be clean, anyway.

When he’s finally naked – again, he feels no shame, he has nothing to be embarrassed about - they throw him unceremoniously into a shower stall. The goons don’t wash him with any care or consideration. They just let him slump in the stall, observe as his limp body is pounded by cold water from the rusted shower head. But it does its job. The sweat, the piss, the stench of fear. It all goes down the drain.

* * *

He’s coherent enough to realize that he’s being taken in the opposite direction when they exit the shower. Bruce raises his gaze, but there are no clues that are of any use to him. The walls are dark, some sort of concrete, and the windows don’t reveal any exterior landmarks he can use to figure out his location. The men that drag him are quiet, not the gloating or gabbing sort. They won’t give him anything he can use. Riddler is nowhere in sight.

The room they bring him to is barren save for the chains meant for his limbs. Bruce yearns for a bed to rest on. At least he’s going to be out of the kneeling position for a while. The lack of toilet or even a bucket makes Bruce think he won’t be here long. He’s not sure if that’s more relieving or terrifying.

Cuffs are attached to his arms and legs, a collar around his neck. It’s humorous that they think so much is needed to hold him. He may be a genius and stronger than most human men, but even he can’t break through as thick of metal as this. Without any of his tools he won’t be getting out any time soon. But he supposes he should be complimented at the gesture.

The henchmen don’t beat him when they leave. It’s a welcome surprise. Bruce is angry at himself for being glad of it.

* * *

Sleep is elusive for a while, but without the blaring television or the mocking villain it eventually, begrudgingly settles in him. He doesn’t sleep well, his dreams dark and panic inducing. When he wakes he’s cold, naked on the concrete floor, body as sore as when he first began to fight crime as a masked vigilante. He feels less rested than when he fell asleep.

Riddler isn’t long to arrive after he wakes. He holds a syringe in his hand, brandishing it with a vexing flourish. Bruce can’t help but comment, “If you keep using that, I’m just going to-“

“Build up a tolerance, won’t be as effective, yes yes,” his enemy interrupts him, just as Bruce had the night before. Payback, Bruce supposes. “Really _Batman_ , if you think you’ll be alive long enough for that to happen then you’re a bigger fool than I thought.”

He’s surprised at the use of his superhero name but decides not to remark on it. Instead he shrugs like the threat doesn’t matter. He’s actually astonished he survived the night. How Nygma is keeping the other supervillains at bay is a riddle in itself. Surely they must all want a piece of him. 

Riddler approaches, and Bruce can see that he’s wary despite his weakened state and the chains that keep him restrained. It’s satisfying to witness how effectively he’s intimidated his opponents, even if they do keep coming back. They have a healthy fear of him at the end of the day. That’s more than he expected in the minds of these lunatics.

A gloved hand cups his cheek, and Bruce’s lips pull back in a snarl. But he can’t do much more than that. The needle is inserted into his neck, and he sighs, finding the repetition tedious.

* * *

He’s dragged to what can only be described as a surgically themed torture chamber. As he’s being bound in yet more chains, his lolling head allows him to view a polished cart full of gleaming surgical equipment. There’s a whip – he can’t help but notice it looks exactly like Selina’s – coiled on the floor a few yards away. There are probably more instruments of pain in the room but Bruce can’t get his head under command so he can’t look around. Despite himself, trepidation begins to flood through him.

A henchman brings the camera in, setting it up under the careful instruction of the Riddler. It strikes him then that he is naked as the day he was born and a rush of humiliation courses through him. There might be _children_ watching the broadcast. Of course what’s nudity compared to systematic torture? Social conditioning shaping his thoughts on the whole thing, Bruce muses.

Bruce is hoisted up by another set of goons. His arms are now held above his head and his feet just barely touch the floor. It’s maddening not to be able to put his feet down to get a sense of balance. His toes graze the floor and Bruce breathes deep, trying to find enough calm to survive this next bout of torment. The pain in his shoulders is enough to try and steal his careful breaths. His muscles are exhausted, and they scream for mercy. He tries to push it away, tries to let the mechanical, precision-like mind of The Batman take hold to push through. He’s _Batman_ . He can _do_ this. He can do _anything_.

So he focuses on the weapons strewn about instead of the agony in his body. Nygma isn’t much for maiming and clinical cruelty, but Bruce has some pretty good guesses on who his next visitor must be. And he _knows_ the whip is a psychological tool of torture, is sure that he was supposed to make the connection to Catwoman. It’s a calculated move that makes Bruce even more certain of who will be next to step through the door.

Riddler begins to talk into the camera. It’s the same tiresome madman speech that supervillains give each time they’re on television or have an audience. Bruce tunes it out, doesn’t want to hear the gloating. Instead he tries to move his head, to fight through the effects of the drug. Luckily his suspended arms have caged in his head and kept it from flopping backwards. Despite his best efforts, his muscles give no indication that they are receiving his desperate pleas to move. 

When Hugo Strange walks into the room, garbed in a white lab coat and black gloves that go up to his elbows, Bruce can honestly say that the sight doesn’t shock him. Like with Scarecrow, he figures Nygma leans towards the more analytical villains and is giving them the first shot at him. Bruce darkly wonders how many it will take before he is dead at their hands.

The professor’s tinted glasses gleam in the bright, sterile light. A smirk lifts the corner of his mouth, but he doesn’t say anything. Rather he turns to the camera just once, takes a bow, and picks up the whip from the ground. Strange caresses the handle as he pivots to face Bruce.

Ultimately the professor is just like any of his other adversaries. He’s evil, insane, and thrives off of others’ pain. Strange has an advantage with immense brainpower, but it doesn’t worry Bruce like it used to. What’s the point now anyway? His identity is already revealed. His home is destroyed. His family is scattered. What more can be done to him now?

The whip cuts through the quiet with a hissing snap, the suddenness of it shocking Bruce despite himself. Though the drug keeps him still, it doesn’t dull any of his nerve endings. Agony explodes across his abdomen. It’s an intense, jarring feeling, like liquid fire injected beneath his skin. Batman doesn’t make a sound, but his eyes are now focused on Strange. The professor has his attention.

“Did Ms. Kyle ever use this on you?” the villain asks, pausing to stroke the handle of the whip again.

Bruce knows that it isn’t really Catwoman’s weapon. It’s just part of Strange’s sick game to suggest that it is. He’s no stranger to psychological torture. He can withstand this. So Batman continues to stare, but refuses to answer. Not that he could anyway, with the drug wreaking havoc on his motor movements.

The ends of the bullwhip assault his thighs a moment later, the blooming fire spreading across his skin. The force of it nearly causes him to cry out. In an effort to detach himself from the hurt, Batman considers his enemy. It’s obvious that Strange isn’t an expert with this tool. The strike wasn’t in the same spot as the first, which would have caused him double the anguish.

The fact is of little comfort. Even a novice can inflict considerable pain with this weapon.

Strange once again touches the leather of the handle, running his fingers up and down its length. “She’s looking for you, you know.” His tone is so casual, so flippant, that Bruce doesn’t know how to interpret the words. The professor paces in front of him, a slow walk that Bruce knows is just a show for the watching audience. When his antagonist takes off his glasses to stare him in the eyes, Bruce would have tensed if the toxin wasn’t binding his muscles still. “How fast would you break if we brought her here to join in on the fun?” Strange asks, his eyes gleaming with malice.

He doesn’t rise to the bait, knows that Catwoman is quite capable of staying out of their clutches.

But they caught _him_ , didn’t they? Bruce pushes away the negative thought.

“It would be poetic, wouldn’t it, to use your Batarangs and other toys on her? Tit for tat,” the professor continues. Bruce notices that all the while he rubs the handle of the whip. It’s sickening.

Despite the threats, the words are lulling him into a false sense of security. Strange can talk all he wants. He can tune him out.

But Bruce has forgotten that this man doesn’t just talk because he likes the sound of his own voice. Strange always has a point. And what is the point of the camera if not to make the subject dance?

Strange stops in front of him, but he’s careful to stay out of kicking distance. Despite the drugs stopping him from doing just that. Bruce is oddly touched by his enemies’ substantial fear of him. That they think his willpower and prowess is so great. “Or each of your foes could have a turn with her,” Strange comments, and his grin after the words is almost manic. 

Batman’s lips pull back in a snarl of hatred. It’s as if his lips don’t remember the drug is supposed to be cancelling out such movements. The caustic anger pushes down the pain in his body, makes it so he can’t even feel it. All he can feel is a sharp desire to make Strange _suffer_.

“Ah, there you are,” Strange breathes, voice wavering in reverence. His rasp is almost sexual, and inside Batman growls at it.

The whip flies again, catching his ribcage. Batman doesn’t feel it, the balm of loathing numbing his nerve endings. He begins to struggle with earnest. It’s nothing like what he wants to do, but his right leg makes an aborted kicking motion. The effort of his movements causes a sheen of sweat to coat his body. And yet Bruce continues to fight, despite knowing that is what they want. The more entertaining he is the longer the camera stays on. But his only thought is of Selina, of making sure she is safe.

Three more times the whip connects with his body. His bound arms, his legs, and again on the stomach. All the while he rages, barely audible roars escaping his numbed lips. He is more beast than man at this point. A wild animal being poked at, made to perform. And yet the camera does not capture the full extent of his anger. His full rage is locked behind the paralysis of the drug.

* * *

Ultimately Bruce passes out. There is only so much a human can withstand. The scalpels, pliers, and forceps have all left marks on his body by the time he escapes into oblivion. He doesn’t hear how Strange ends his session with him. Nor is he awake for Riddler’s parting words to the television audience. 

When he wakes up he is back in his holding cell. His wounds are hastily patched. They will make sure he doesn’t bleed out, but they aren’t meant to keep infection or scarring at bay.

Batman does not feel despair, but _Bruce_ does. And he wallows in it now. Thinking of his family, of Selina, just brings him more pain. But there is a comfort in that pain, so he continues to picture them, the watery images of his children, of Alfred, of his lover, a bittersweet balm to his mind. 


	3. Chapter 3

He’s given a reprieve from any physical torture for a few days. He’s brought into the camera room every night so that the masses can gaze upon their fallen hero, but he is not visited by any supervillains save the Riddler. Each time Nygma parades him out in front of the camera, it's the same. Riddler can’t help himself. He monologues at the camera, mocking all who watch. “To think he was hailed as the world’s greatest detective.” He laughs, a spiteful chuckle dripping with scorn. “I, Edward Nygma, defeated The Batman.” He puffs up like a preening peacock. “And it was _easy_.” His smirk is practically curling halfway up his face at this point.

The man probably doesn’t even realize what he’s done. How many lives he’s ruined. All that matters to Ridder is that he won.

“Your pitiful minds can’t even comprehend how this happened. The intricacies of my plan would be lost on the plebeian masses. But I will try to dumb it down enough so that-“

Bruce tunes him out for the next half hour. It’s getting easier to do.

* * *

The next evening Riddler visits him early enough so that they can have a one-sided conversation before they go on camera. Riddler tells him that Superman has joined the search. His friend is tearing through Gotham looking for him. Bruce can tell that Nygma is pleased by the news. “I planned for that, of course,” he assures Bruce, steepling his fingers together and nodding as if he’s some sort of wizened old sage. “He won’t find you here.”

That night on the camera he mocks “the muscled up pea brained alien”.

* * *

They haven’t fed him since his capture. Bruce estimates it’s been nearly a week. Normally the loss of food wouldn’t affect him so, but his body is starving itself using energy to combat the drugs and heal his injuries. His hunger is greater than the month he fasted while sojourning in Awjila. Back then his fast had been his own choice, and he’d been at the peak of physical fitness. Now, it’s a forced thing, and coupled with the beatings Bruce finds that he can do little but focus on the pain in his gut.

He’s feeling Batman’s steely resolve less and less. It’s as if his alter ego is hibernating deep inside, unable to help him. He would panic, but the hunger makes it hard to feel anything else.

* * *

Bruce takes stock of his situation every day. The outlook continues to get bleaker, especially as he gets weaker. The Batsuit is long gone. He is in a constant state of nudity. There is a bucket in the cell now. Riddler’s goons empty it about once a day. There have been no more showers.

Though the Dark Knight is used to the lonely dark, Bruce feels a bone deep isolation as he wallows alone in his prison. As the days drag on, Bruce begins to look forward to when Riddler fetches him for the nightly camera show. It reminds him there are other people out there. That he isn’t as alone as he thinks.

That he’s alive.

* * *

Of course, the reprieve doesn’t last forever. He calculates that it’s been a week and two days since he was caught. That night, Bruce knows that something is up just because of the change in pattern. Beefed up lackeys drug him for the first time in days and release him from his chains. They drag Bruce to the shower room. With clinical hands they soap his body as the icy water wets his body. 

He’s relatively clean when it’s all said and done. The bandages that are left from Strange’s session are tacky with blood and frayed at the edges, but the goons don’t remove them. Instead they hoist his unresponsive body up and deliver him to his next destination.

Bruce can’t be sure, but he thinks it is the same room that he was in with Strange. The tools are gone but the bright, surgical lights remain. All traces of gore have been bleached away. The room smells strongly of the chemical. The chains seem the same, at any rate. His wrists hang from the manacles and Bruce can’t find the strength to stand on the tips of his toes despite the excruciating pain it causes. It doesn’t matter anyway - the drug is sapping him of his muscle coordination. 

Riddler comes in while his peons set up the camera. He approaches Bruce with a wide grin. “You won’t imagine how much he paid to come visit you.”

Money isn’t an issue for many of his foes. The statement doesn’t exactly narrow it down for him. 

Nygma huffs in annoyance. He raises one finger, his voice rising in sing-song arrogance. “He has two faces but bears one head-” 

The rest of the riddle drowns out in white static. Bruce isn’t afraid of Harvey despite knowing how far he’s fallen into insanity. He thinks of his former friend and can’t believe the other man would want to hurt him this way now that he knows who is behind the mask. Bruce truly believes in salvation, believes people can change their ways. Would Two-Face- no, _Harvey_ \- really want to harm him?

* * *

It turns out that yes, Harvey _does_ want to hurt him. For once, Two-Face is in agreement with both sides of himself. Harvey deals out his anger and frustration on the man he ‘thought was his friend’. Two-Face is just happy to strike him with his fists. Each punch is calculated with flips of the coin. Even when doling out punishment Two-Face is consistent with his sense of justice. He rants and raves the entirety of the time he’s with Batman. 

By the time Bruce is returned to his cell he thinks that he might not last through the night. His lungs feel like they are punctured and filling with blood. His right eye is so swollen he cannot see out of it. The molars that Strange removed had left his mouth feeling gapingly empty, but Harvey has knocked out several more teeth, leaving Bruce’s mouth feeling barren.

He wishes for death, in that moment. It would be so much easier on the people that look up to him. So much easier on his family. So much easier on _him_.

The Batman is utterly incensed at his weakness.

* * *

Bruce makes it through the night. 

He likes to think it was with Batman’s willpower but he’s wondering if perhaps it was the doctor Riddler sent in. The drugs the doctor dopes him up with aren’t meant to keep him docile, but they numb the pain and make him sleepy.

He isn’t made to perform in front of the camera for the first night since his capture.

* * *

Throughout the next day the doctor feeds Bruce a thin broth and tends to his wounds. Bruce vomits up the broth twice before they are able to keep any of it down. The doctor doesn’t grimace at the sick. He merely wipes it up and continues his duties. 

Bruce wants to thank him for his kindness, but that’s ridiculous. 

Riddler comes that night and the doctor pleads for another day of rest. He tells Nygma that The Batman won’t survive and his victory tour will be cut short.

It does the trick. Riddler leaves him alone for the second night in a row.

* * *

The next day the doctor bathes Bruce. He feels like an invalid. He’s so weak and doped up he can do nothing but keep his head upright enough so that his chin doesn’t rest heavily on his chest.

“You saved my wife once, you know.” 

It’s the first time that the other man has said a word to him. Bruce grunts, but can’t find the strength to answer with words.

* * *

Riddler’s mercy doesn’t last for a third evening. He’s barely conscious when he’s situated in front of the camera, but Bruce figures that the public needs reassurance that he’s still alive. They won’t tune in just to listen to Nygma. They want the main attraction. 

* * *

Suffering is interesting. It’s terrible and hard to endure but people are _fascinated_ by it. There’s a reason why news stations focus on crimes, death, anarchy, destruction. It’s much more interesting than say… a heartfelt story about a veteran getting a new wheelchair. Now, say that that same veteran had their wheelchair _stolen._ Well now, that’s different. That’s _interesting._

Bruce doesn’t blame people for watching. He really doesn’t. And he understands the psychology of why they do.

Yet he hates them all for it anyway.

* * *

There’s only so much torment people can watch before they either shut it off in disgust, or sickeningly enough because it gets _boring_ , however. Those that still eagerly watch the broadcasts are his enemies or his friends, the latter desperate for some sort of clue to appear on screen in their effort to find him.

Nygma knows he’s losing viewers’ interest. 

So the next step? 

Why, announcing that the next broadcast will be Batman’s final one.


	4. Chapter 4

Bruce can barely understand Riddler’s words. His weakness is despicable, but any lesser man would have been dead long ago. That’s of little comfort, however.

“- promised your death on live television tonight, Dark Knight.” Bruce struggles to comprehend the other man. “But as the hour grows nigh… I find myself… hesitating.” Riddler paces in front of him, the steady click of his shoes oddly comforting.

“I’m _not_ fond of you, Batman. This isn’t a declaration of love. Nor do I fear Joker’s incessant threats on my person.” Here he stops and sniffs disdainfully. “But I don’t want this to end. Is this _sentiment_?” The word is spat, dirty, hated.

“I am so obviously your intellectual superior that these… feelings are incomprehensible.” Riddler sneers. “I’ve killed men with higher IQs than _you_. And I didn’t hesitate,” he’s quick to add.

Bruce gazes at him, his once sharp eyes a cloudy blue now. He doesn’t know what to say. Perhaps there’s nothing Nygma wants to hear. He loves the sound of his own voice above all others after all.

* * *

He’s stuffed into a badly sewn parody of his Batsuit. It’s a disgrace and a mockery, but Bruce feels nothing but numb. It is almost a relief to know that his suffering is about to be over. 

* * *

He isn’t taken to the usual broadcasting room. Instead they drag him to what may have once been a conference room. It is packed with his greatest enemies. So many of the rogues have arrived that the lesser criminals spill out of the doorway and into the hall. They shout insults, shake with anticipation, spit on him as he’s shuffled past. 

Bruce wonders how Nygma convinced them all not to pounce on him and tear him apart. His foes seem to have some restraint after all. 

Joker is not present. It is not surprising. The only way Joker would have allowed this is if _he_ was the one in charge. Harley too, is missing. 

Bruce also notices that Ivy isn’t there. Perhaps this depravity is too much for her. The Batman and Poison Ivy have been on good terms lately. It is possible that she does not view him in the same way that she once did. Ra’s and Talia are also not in attendance. They will not attempt to rescue him, Bruce knows, but they won’t condone this either. 

There is no need to drug or chain him anymore. He doesn’t have the strength to fight back. When the goons deposit him at the head of the room he slumps there, weaker than a newborn. He does not raise his gaze to meet the eyes of his antagonists. This makes them jeer all the more. 

Bruce does not hear Riddler enter. He isn’t aware of his presence until the other man is gripping his chin and forcing his head up. “I have a surprise for you, Batman.” 

He has no reaction to the news.

If Nygma is disappointed in his lack of response he does not show it. Instead the madman turns towards the crowd, amps them up, gets them hooting and howling like a pack of animals. 

And then his _surprise_ is brought in. 

Selena is still in her catsuit, but there are various cuts on her face, and something is obviously wrong with her left leg. She still fights, hissing and clawing like the animal she so accurately portrays.

It is the first time in several days that Bruce feels The Batman stir. His alter ego is _furious_. 

He makes to rise, but Riddler is there. He is so feeble that the man only needs to exert the slightest amount of pressure to make him fall to the ground once more. 

“The Bat and the Cat, reunited for the last time!”

The assembled criminals roar in laughter and ridicule. 

“Get off of me,” Catwoman growls, and she knees one of the henchmen holding her in the groin. Bruce admires her bravery and tenacity, but there are too many to fight off. Another goon takes the fallen one’s place, and wrenches her shoulder, causing her to grit her teeth in pain. 

Bruce hasn’t spoken for so long that he almost doesn’t recognize his voice. “Selena,” he croaks. If only he can touch her. Perhaps that will give him the strength he needs to get through this. 

Her blazing green eyes find his and they are a balm to his soul. He loves her fiercely, thinks he always has. He cannot let her die. 

“Riddler, please.” 

It is the first and only time The Batman has begged. 

And it is exactly what his enemy wants. 

“Yes, Batman?” Riddler asks, all sweetness and innocence. 

“Let her go.” It is not a command. It is a request. “Please.” 

Catwoman snarls and wriggles, trying to dislodge the thugs that have her in their tight grips. 

Nygma acts as if he’s considering the plea but then shakes his head, all false sympathy. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Batman.”

This is no fairytale. Bruce doesn’t magically find the fortitude to get up and pummel each and every one of the villains in the room. He can’t even muster up the power to swing at the felon that is peering down at him. Instead he gets to his knees with shaking muscles. He is the picture of a fallen warrior, placating and beseeching. He has nothing left to offer besides his pride. 

“Please.” His voice shakes with the sincerity of his entreaty. “I’m begging you.”

The crowd swells with taunting shouts and guffaws. 

Again, Riddler appears to consider. But he shakes his head once more. “I wish I could, Batman, but I promised these fine fellows a show. And a show they shall have!” 

Catwoman and Batman bare their teeth in unison while the horde howls. 

* * *

Black Mask has always hated Catwoman. Stemming from a feud long ago, his loathing for her has only grown since then. He steps up with a wave from Nygma, which comes as a shock to no one, and delivers a brutal jab to Selena’s abdomen. She makes no cry of pain, but her body attempts to bend. The henchmen that have a hold of her don’t allow her to do so. 

Bruce fights to get to her side, but again Riddler stops him with foot to his chest. “Welcome to the breaking of the Bat!” he sneers, turning to face the mob and the camera. 

The throng of villains loses their minds, hooting with repulsive glee. It drowns out the sounds of Black Mask’s continued punches. 

They are going to die in this room. It is fitting that they are together, but Bruce can hardly contain his grief that Selena will suffer because of him. 

Riddler is facing the camera, monologuing about his victory yet again, when the walls begin to shake. It is almost unnoticeable at first, just the barest of quakes. But then the camera begins to wobble, and the mass of criminals begins to look around in confusion. They all look to Riddler, then Batman, searching for answers. 

From the center of the room comes a mighty crack and the floor begins to cave. There’s shock and uncertainty in the murmur of the crowd. They do not know if this is part of the entertainment or not. 

And then, like a vision straight out of the fairy tale that is _not_ Bruce’s life, Superman busts from beneath the floor. He is rage incarnate, his eyes blazing red and his cape billowing like a beast’s tail. There is no warning before Clark begins his assault. Those closest to him fall prey to his fury first, dropping beneath his ice breath, heat vision, and brutal blows. The most cowardly of the thugs begin to run, screaming in terror. 

Next to appear out of the hole in the ground are his family, decked out in their Batgear despite the public knowing who they are. Dick is first, followed by Barbara, Jason, Damian, and Tim. They unleash their wrath just as viciously as Superman.

The rest of the core Justice League is just behind his bat family, rushing up out of the floor like a swarm of hellish rats. They give no mercy as they leap at his foes. Diana smashes into Bane, barreling him clear through the wall and into the hallway. Mr. Freeze fires his ice gun but Barry is too quick, sidestepping the blast and delivering a swift uppercut into the frozen man’s helmet. J'onn begins to spar with Croc, ducking as Mad Hatter attempts to put a mind control tophat on his head. Mr. Zsasz and Orin face off, grappling into one another with equally ferocious growls. Hal is hard pressed against Deathstroke, but Green Lantern uses the crowded confines to his advantage. 

It is madness. It is chaos. The cacophony of screams and sounds of battle are grating to the ears. 

It is the most beautiful thing Bruce has heard in weeks. 

Bruce can hardly believe it, thinks that maybe his rescuers are just a mad vision his mind has produced. But The Batman, cool and calculating, recognizes the salvation for what it is. The Dark Knight takes the reigns. Riddler has disappeared into the fray. Batman takes advantage and flounders to his feet, dizziness threatening to take him down again. But his sheer force of will keeps him up.

Catwoman is on the floor, wrestling with Black Mask. Batman is upon them in an instant, his hands around the other man’s throat. He does not have much force behind it, but it is enough distraction so that Selena can gain the advantage. She rakes her claws down Roman’s chest, the sharp talons ripping with ease through his suit. 

An elbow thrown back into his face has Bruce releasing his chokehold, but by then Selena has regained her footing despite the bum leg. Catwoman delivers a solid right hook to Black Mask’s head. She follows up with several more hits, knocking the criminal unconscious. 

There is murder in her eyes when she looks down at Roman. But then she looks at Bruce and her gaze softens. “Hey big boy,” she greets, a small smile curling her lips. 

Their reunion is cut short when a gust of fire flares between them. Firefly cackles. There is no room for him to fly with the low ceilings, but he can still maim them with his favorite element. The Justice League and the Bat Family may be a force to be reckoned with, but even they can’t take on all of his enemies at the same time in a timely fashion. They will have to deal with this on their own.

Batman and Catwoman share a look before they spring into action.

Well, neither of them quite _spring_ , but even in their broken state Firefly is no match for the two of them. Selena rolls as Firefly shoots off another bout of flames, and Bruce staggers the other way. Both aim to get around the back of the villain, get to the tubes and wiring that will cut off the fuel supply. Firefly whips around to blast another blaze at Batman, and this is when Catwoman strikes. Her thick claws make short work of the flamethrower on Garfield’s back. 

“You miserable feline!” Firefly curses, swinging at Catwoman with the now useless nozzle. 

Bruce kicks the back of Garfield’s knee, causing him to stagger. It gives Selena the chance to knee the criminal in the chin. Firefly falls back with a cry. Batman stomps on his chest, but he does not have enough power for it to knock the wind out of the other man like it normally would. Catwoman is right behind him, however, pouncing on their fallen adversary with a feline-like grace only she possesses. Her fists connect repeatedly with Firefly’s head, knocking his mask askew. He is down in a matter of moments. 

With heaving breaths, Selena gets off of the unconscious man and makes her way over to Bruce, her limp more pronounced than ever. Her jade gaze finds him, and she is so blindingly gorgeous it hurts his heart to look at her. 

“We need to get out of here,” she says. 

Normally Bruce would never allow such a retreat. But in their state? They’re more of a liability than an asset. 

Selena grabs his left arm, slings it across her shoulders. “Come on,” she urges as she pulls them closer to the wall, away from the main battle. 

They head towards the hole that Wonder Woman and Bane made, limping and hobbling together. Selena seems to be supporting all of his weight, but he can’t do much, can’t even find the breath to apologize. She bears it all, without complaint. 

As they step through the rubble and out into the hallway, Bruce looks back. He sees a flash of Dick’s escrima sticks and a vivid streak of Clark’s heat vision. 

But what really stands out in those last few looks of the battlefield? 

The camera, toppled over, its red broadcast light shining bright.


	5. Chapter 5

The sounds of battle recede as they make it further down the hallway. He’s delirious and The Batman is fading. If Catwoman weren’t there to guide him and hold him up he would faceplant right there. She whispers encouragement, soft words of endearment. She is being gentle with him, but Bruce doesn’t mind. 

“We’re almost there,” she tells him, but he doesn’t believe her. He doesn’t think he can make it. His breath rattles out with extreme effort. 

They turn a corner and Bruce thinks that they may be going the wrong way. It is dark down this hallway. Surely they are going deeper into the building, not out?

But Selena presses forward, and he can do nothing but follow. 

It is as they turn another corner that the Riddler shows up. His suit is ripped and his hat is askew. He looks better than he has any right to. 

“I’m going to kill you, Batman!” he rages. He is infuriated that he has been shown up. No one was supposed to be able to find them after all. 

The question mark can elongates with a blade out the bottom with a click of a button. Nygma flies at the both of them, snarling as he does so. 

Catwoman tenses and seems like she’s about to push Bruce out of harm’s way when a golden lasso flies through the air, circling neatly around Edward’s throat. He’s stopped short, pulled taut, and falls to the ground. Wonder Woman pulls on the lasso, bringing the Riddler closer. Her snarl of rage causes him to squeak in terror. Diana wraps one of her hands around the criminal’s throat and begins to _squeeze_. 

Bruce can barely find the minimal breath it takes to croak out, “Don’t.” 

Even now. After all that has been done he will not stoop to their level. He will not have Riddler murdered for his sake. The justice system will see to him. 

Diana seems at war with herself, but when Selena shakes her head the Amazon sighs and lets go, allowing the Riddler to drop to the ground. 

“You filthy cretins. Do you have any idea who I am? I defeated The _Batman_! How dare you touch me!” Nygma is quaking on the ground, but apparently he isn’t cowed. 

A bone shattering kick to his ribs leaves him mewling in agony. Diana doesn't seem appeased, but she snorts and moves towards them, ignoring the sniveling man on the ground. 

Selena seems loathe to let go of him, but she is ever practical and knows how strong Wonder Woman is. Diana hefts Bruce up easily and the two women share another nod before they turn, heading the direction that Bruce and Selena had been originally headed towards. A few more turns leads to a solid door, but Diana makes quick work of it with an incredible kick. 

It is night, and the cool Gotham air embraces him like an old lover. Bruce could sob from the sheer relief of it. 

“You’re going to be okay,” Selena says, and her gloved hand finds his.

* * *

Bruce will never condone killing. Never. 

But he also understands revenge and the heat of battle. 

In the aftermath there are several of his greatest foes that will never rise to terrorize Gotham again. Many more are severely injured, will need months of physical therapy and healing to overcome. Even more are back in Arkham or Blackgate. 

Hugo Strange was severed in half by Superman’s heat vision. He does not know by whose hands, but Ventriloquist, Calendar Man, and Killer Moth are all dead. Scarecrow was made to inhale so much of his own gas by Damian that the villain may never recover. Two-Face is in the hospital with all of his limbs mangled, a dual effort on the part of Jason and Tim. Riddler was lucky, sporting only a few broken ribs and a bruised throat from his time with Wonder Woman. 

Bruce analyzes his feelings in the weeks following. He does not fault his family or friends, knows that if the roles were reversed he may have done some heinous things in retribution. But he still feels guilty, feels the carnage and death on his hands as if he was the one that did it. 

* * *

Wayne Manor is no more, so the Justice League hosts him and his family at the Watchtower while Bruce recovers. He can tell that Selena is uncomfortable in the heroic space, but she dutifully stays by his side. They talk, seriously and at depth, for the first time in a long while. She is not coy and flirtatious. He is not cold and unemotional. He laughs, she cries. And then they switch, great sobs wrenching from Bruce the like he hasn’t felt since his parents died. 

It is beyond cathartic. 

“How did you find me?” Bruce asks her when he can finally form coherent words. 

Selena shrugs, suddenly shy. “I let myself get caught.” She reaches into the back of her mouth, up near her top molars and plies at something with a sharp claw. 

She hands the device over and Bruce stares at it, amazed. A tracker. How many times had he tried to get her to carry a Battracker, a way for him to find her if she ever encountered trouble? 

“They say you can’t train a cat,” she remarks, a sly smile curling her lips. “But you can track it.” 

Selena shares how Superman found her, had begged her for her help. Bruce knows one of his sons would have offered themselves as bait if they had left the island earlier. Though he is sorry Selena was harmed, he is grateful that it was not one of his progeny that had sacrificed themselves for him. 

He reaches out, takes her hand in his. Tears threaten to spill again. “Thank you,” he says. He knows how hard it was for her to give up any semblance of her freedom. And she did it. For _him_. 

Her cheeks dust red and she looks away, embarrassed by the raw emotion in his voice. 

* * *

His family sticks around too. Alfred blubbers with apologies the first time he sees Bruce. The old man’s arms wrap gently around him and he weeps. “Master Bruce, I’m so sorry.” Bruce holds his surrogate father in as tight an embrace as he can. “For everything.” 

Turns out that Damian knocked Alfred unconscious before his wards proceeded to steal the private jet to get off the island. Damian later gripes about how the Batplane is far superior and would have been much more useful, and it makes Bruce smile despite the disobedience. 

Barbara lets him know that she has told her father she is Batgirl. Surprisingly Gordan has not forbidden her from suiting up again. Probably knows it’s a waste of breath. Barbara will never stop fighting crime. She stays for a few days before she goes, promising to visit as often as she can. She departs with a chaste kiss to Bruce’s forehead. 

Dick is the most clingy of his sons. He lingers about like a wraith, and is in Bruce’s room whenever Selena is not there. He is emotional, shows more attachment to Bruce than he has in _years_. It is comforting and endearing in a way only fathers can understand. 

* * *

Clark is the first to broach the subject about the future of The Dark Knight. He is insistent, but strives not to be cruel in his pressuring. “Batman can’t end. There are plenty of heroes that don’t have secret identities. It won’t change anything. Gotham needs you.” 

Bruce is adamant that he is done. It pains him to give up his alter ego, but he can’t justify putting his friends, his family, Selena in danger just so he can keep up this charade. And really, what good has he done? The criminals just keep coming back. Arkham won’t rehabilitate them. Who is he kidding? 

Superman sits down on the end of the bed, patting Bruce’s covered leg. “If it isn’t what you want… Well Dick is more than willing to don the cowl.” 

It irks him that Clark would talk to his eldest about such an important topic without consulting him first. “No,” he growls. He doesn’t intend to allow his wards to patrol anymore either. Bruce isn’t foolish enough to think it will be easy to get them to quit. Being a superhero is more than putting on a costume. More than being a good person. It becomes a part of you. Batman will always be inside of him, even if he never puts the suit on again. His boys will never want to give up their alter egos, but for their safety, they must. 

Clark is determined. “Batman _must_ go on. They can’t think they’ve broken you.” He fixes Bruce with a steely gaze, lips thin. 

Bruce glares at his friend but says no more. The look on his face is answer enough. 

* * *

The rest of the Justice League tries to convince them in their own ways. Hal argues for justice. J’ohn speaks of the logic of The Batman myth and the powerless people in Gotham that need it. Orin brings up the fact that Joker, Harley, Ivy, and others are still loose. No one knows them better than him, who else could bring them in? Barry jokes with him, uses humor to try and connect. Diana is not so subtle. She calls him a coward when he continues to decline.

“So they broke your spirit then?” she asks, crossing her arms in front of her, a clear sign of her frustration. 

Bruce rolls his eyes at her and fixes her with his best Batman frown. “It just isn’t worth the danger anymore.” She scoffs but Bruce continues. “I’m getting older, slower. They caught me didn’t they? What is keeping them from doing it again?” 

Wonder Woman huffs, but she sits down next to him, grabs his hands in an iron grip. “We must rise when we fall, Bruce.” She shakes their entwined hands in emphasis. “This has always been a possibility, ever since you began this crusade.”

He knows that. He does. But terror grips his heart when he thinks of any of his boys being tortured the way he was. Of his friends being held captive and filmed. Of Selena stripped and bound in chains. It is terrifying. Even Diana can feel the tremors that wrack through his body. She gazes at him sadly, but does not press him any further. 

* * *

When he is well enough to leave, the Justice League embraces him as they say their goodbyes. His sons, along with Selina, fly to the island he bought under a pseudonym. Selina is uncomfortable around his wards. She is begrudgingly fond of his sidekicks, but she has always been feisty towards them as Catwoman. Selena doesn’t know how to embrace her motherly side and act like herself with them. Bruce can tell she’s anxious to get back to Gotham. 

He’s not foolish enough to believe she won’t return. Gotham is a poison, a terrible, greedy, dirty place. But it is also an oasis for those seeking escape, an addicting and hauntingly beautiful city. It is _home_. Bruce would never expect her to stay forever. 

* * *

A week later is when Selena says her goodbye. 

She comes to him in the dead of night, a purple nightgown draping her sinuous body. She is quick to remove it as she straddles him, grabbing his face in a fierce kiss. It is the first time that they have been sexual with one another since before his capture, and Bruce feels _alive_. His nerve endings are tingling, and he can’t get enough of her soft skin on his hands. 

His strength is returning slowly but surely, and he has the energy to flip her onto her back, covering her body with his. She slithers her toes into the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down with nimble feet. They have known each other for so long, have done this dance so many times, that he knows exactly where to touch her to make her purr. He soon has her moaning as he nibbles across her breasts, tugging gently at her nipples as he does. Bruce takes one nipple into his mouth and _sucks_ , drawing a deep groan from Selena. 

Moving lower, he laps at her sex. Her legs part for him, wantonly spreading herself to allow him more access. Bruce takes advantage, buries in deep. He uses two fingers to pump inside her, the digits sliding in easily. Selena cries out when he arches his fingers and uses his tongue to encircle her clit. 

She comes soon after, riding both his face and fingers with nothing but open lust. Selena is beautiful on a regular day, but she is perfect like this. Bruce wishes they could stay like this forever. 

Selena paws at him, pulls him up so that they can kiss. She is almost desperate in her movements, and Bruce realizes that she is crying. He tries to ask about it but she shushes him, grabbing his manhood and urging him to sheath himself inside her. 

With a groan, Bruce buries into her tight heat. Selena whispers his name and kisses him frantically as they begin to move in unison. It is a coupling of passion and neither last long, coming together minutes later. It is not any less satisfying for it being so short. 

They lay together as their skin cools. Bruce traces bat symbols on Selena’s shoulders. “I love you, Bruce,” Selena says, so low that he almost can’t hear her. 

Before he can answer she shifts, looking up at him. “I love you whether or not you’re Batman.” 

He is so in love with her it makes his heart ache. “But you can’t stay,” he whispers. 

“But I can’t stay,” she agrees, and tears slip down her cheeks in thick rivulets. 

* * *

Alfred flies her away in the private jet in the early morning. Bruce is despondent and depressed all day. He wallows in his study, absently flipping through a book he has no interest in. Naturally, his sons all wander it at some point. Tim curls up next to him on the couch, reading a book of his own. They don’t share any words but Bruce appreciates his company. Jason paces while he’s in the study, glaring at Bruce every so often. But he too doesn’t say anything. Perhaps he doesn’t know what to say. 

Damian appears in the evening. “Father, it’s time to get you back in shape,” he announces. He’s wrapping his knuckles with tape as he speaks.

He hasn’t shared with them that he plans on forbidding them from donning the Bat mantle again. Bruce isn’t sure he’s ready for the fallout of it. But with a resolve he barely feels he says, “Batman and Robin are over, son.” 

Damian scoffs. “That’s ridiculous.” And then he puts his fists up, perfect form. “Come on, Father.” 

His son has been trained by the best, but he still isn’t as good as Batman. Bruce blocks the first punch, dodges the second. By the third swing Damian’s arm is pinned up behind his back. 

Damian begins to twist to get out of the hold, but Bruce increases the pressure. “I’m serious, Damian. We’re done.”

A sneer curls his son’s lip. “Mother was right about you.”

It is a blow that is more painful than any physical wound. But Bruce persists. “It takes more courage to turn away,” he says. 

Releasing Damian, his son whirls around with a huff. “Those are a coward’s words.” The boy eyes him up and down. “And you are no coward.” 

Bruce shakes his head. “I’ve been a fool risking your life. It isn’t worth it.” He puts his hand on Damian’s shoulder, though his son is tense and doesn’t appear to appreciate the touch. “We’re done,” he repeats, the finality clear in his tone. 

* * *

Damian storms off, knocking a vase over on his way out. Bruce ignores the outburst and returns to his book, flipping through the pages, words unseen. 

It is an hour before Dick ventures in. Damian can still be heard down the hall in the gym, taking out his frustration on the punching bags. 

His eldest leans against the doorjamb, crossing his arms over his chest. His smile is bittersweet. Dick must know what transpired between them because he launches into his speech without preamble. “We’re never going to give it up, Bruce. We know the risks and we accept them.”

“You would watch those animals do that to Tim, to Damian?” Bruce growls, fists balling in anger. 

“I didn’t say it was a _good_ idea.” Dick smiles again, the same sad tilt to it. “I know it could happen again. And it would destroy me just as much as it did when I had to watch what they did to you.”

His son enters the room now, approaches and crouches down so he can look up into his surrogate father’s face. “You gave us a gift, Bruce. And we can never thank you enough for it. But you can’t take it away from us now.” 

Tears begin to well in Dick’s eyes, but he forges ahead. “I love you so much, Bruce, and I don’t want to hurt you. But we can’t stay here forever. We _won’t_.” 

Dick takes his hands, and Bruce feels like has no control of his body. His entire world is crumbling around him. “Jason and I are leaving next week. Blüdhaven needs me. Penguin is still shipping weapons out of his warehouse and I-”

Bruce cuts him off with a hug. It is the only way to stop himself from breaking down into great big sobs. 


	6. Chapter 6

He doesn’t magically come around to his sons’ way of thinking. 

Dick and Jason leave the next week and it is the hardest thing he’s ever done to let them go. The fear that they will be taken and harmed strangles the breath in his throat. He _could_ force them to stay. He could keep them captive for the rest of his life, keep them safe, with _him_. 

But in the end, though Bruce can hardly get himself to release them, he does. Jason claps him on the shoulder and Dick leaps back to give him a final embrace before they are gone. 

Damian’s sour mood increases tenfold at the absence of his brothers. He knows they are returning home, donning the suits once more. Bruce can hardly stand to be around him so volatile is his temper. 

Tim is disappointed and sullen, but he doesn’t audibly voice his feelings. The most internally sensitive of his wards, Tim has always been more quiet and introspective. He spends a lot of time outside, staring at the ocean’s horizon, deep in thought. It is two days after Jason and Dick have gone that Bruce finds Tim at the closest beach, his toes just dipping into the water. 

“What should I do?” Bruce asks, sitting down beside him. 

Tracing his finger through the sand, Tim avoids eye contact. “You’re scared. But you always have been when it comes to us. I don’t think you believed this could happen.” His son shrugs, looks up at him with a morose gaze. “But it can. And it can even now. This place won’t keep us safe forever.”

Whether or not that’s true, Bruce feels guilt tear at his heart. His sons are so _unhappy_ in this paradise. Has Gotham poisoned all of them so? 

If he’s honest with himself, Bruce misses Batman like he would miss a limb. It’s such a vital part to him that he feels like a piece of him is lost. But the _fear_ is so intense it feels like his chest is caving in. He hasn’t felt like this since Jason died, but even then the pure hatred had kept him going. Now it feels like if he put the suit back on he would be forfeiting his sons’ lives, that Selena will suffer, that his friends will be captured and tortured. How can he justify that? 

“It’s okay to be scared,” Tim continues. His voice is kind, no judgement. “And it’s okay if it takes you a while to be Batman again.” The side of Tim’s mouth lifts in an endearing smile. “Jason was pretty messed up when he came back. You have a right to be too.” 

The sun is starting to go down, sunset almost upon them. “I think you should embrace your fears, just like you did with the bats.”

It is a poignant and startling thing for his son to say. Bruce ponders it, but does not audibly respond. They sit together in silence until the sun begins to dip below the horizon. 

* * *

“Master Bruce?”

Alfred is the only one that hasn’t pushed him in either direction. He hasn’t asked whether he intends to become Batman again or if he’s hung up the cape for good. Bruce appreciates it more than he can explain. 

He turns to face his elder, smiling tightly. 

“I hesitate to show you this, sir, but I think you should be made aware.” 

Bruce’s eyebrow arches in question. Alfred approaches, hands him a tablet. There is no internet on the island, but this is tech straight from the Batcave. It can get a signal anywhere. 

On the screen is the Joker. He is laughing maniacally, the camera close enough to his face that it captures the yellow hue to his teeth. When the laughter subsides and the camera zooms out, Bruce is startled to see Riddler in chains. The man looks absolutely _wrecked_. 

“This has been broadcasting for three days now.”

Bruce feels his blood turn to ice. His first instinct is to snarl in Alfred’s direction and demand an explanation. Why is he just _now_ learning of this? 

Joker begins to sing ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ as he rips off Nygma’s fingernails. Even through the screams of agony Joker’s song is clear. Bruce feels like he’s going to be sick. His skin feels clammy and a sweat breaks out across his brow. He turns away from the scene on the tablet. 

“He is enacting his revenge on the Riddler for ruining your game.” Alfred is clearly uncomfortable. He fidgets, a habit that is startlingly unlike his oldest friend. “But he is interested in starting a…” Alfred clears his throat and looks away, a scowl turning his lips down in a frown. “He wants to play a new game, sir.” 

Bruce doesn’t react for a few moments, but when he does he stands and pulls Alfred in for a hug. It’s odd for him to be so demonstrative in his affections, but Bruce finds that it’s getting easier with time to express himself this way. And the touch of his family feels good, grounds him. “I’m sorry you’ve had to watch this alone.”

Alfred is clearly startled. He has grown used to The Batman’s gruffness flooding in to Bruce. He does not expect this softness from him. His friend is slow to return the hug, but his grip is tight, sure. 

When they release one another, Alfred smiles sadly. “This is not meant to sway you either way.”

Bruce returns the smile, but it is not sad. “I know.” 

* * *

In the end it is not his sons’ imploring, the Justice Leagues’ begging, Selena’s resistance to retirement, or even Alfred’s neutrality that helps him make his decision. It is the broken sobbing and whimpering from the Riddler that does it. He has never seen such weakness on the arrogant man’s face. The pain, the humiliation, the complete defeat brings Bruce back to the days the villain had him in his clutches. And Bruce doesn’t feel afraid, or angry anymore. He just feels sympathy for this shattered and defeated wretch of a person. 

The terror of his family or friends being harmed is still there, but Bruce admits it always has been. The Batman has managed to push the human emotion away. But as he was stripped bare, reduced to the weakest he’s ever been, the fear managed to lodge itself straight back into his heart. It will always be a part of him. But Tim was right, as was the rest of his team. Gotham, and the world, _needs_ Batman. And feeling the love he has for everyone is not a _weakness_ , but gives him something more to fight for. It grounds him, keeps him constantly aware of danger and threats while also fueling his spirit and passion. 

When he puts on the suit for the first time since his capture, it feels like coming home.

* * *

He spars with Damian and Tim that night. They are all suited up. There is no point anymore, with everyone knowing their identities, but it goes without saying how much more imposing the masks and capes are versus a man or boy’s face. Gotham needs a symbol, and Bruce Wayne and his sons aren’t it. 

Damian is jubilant, comes at his father with a fierce joy that Bruce hasn’t seen in him for weeks now. Tim is less obvious but there’s a tilt to his lips that shows he’s pleased. 

They fight well, and Bruce is out of shape and practice, but neither Robin or Red Robin can take down The Batman. 

“You’ve still got it, old man,” Tim jokes when he’s knocked off his feet. He laughs when Damian growls in frustration.

“Again, Father!” his son demands.

And Bruce indulges. 

* * *

They leave the island the next morning. It will always be there if they need it, but Bruce wonders if he will ever set foot there again.

The Batcave still stands as they left it. It is not a suitable home for two young boys, but they take to it just like they have their superhero identities. Alfred plans to find them a safehouse but Bruce figures his boys will be more happy lurking in the cave than anywhere else. 

* * *

It takes him 2.57 hours (exactly) to find where Joker is keeping Riddler. He enters the warehouse like a vengeful spirit, taking out henchmen with an ease he thought would never return to him. His sons hold their own as well, knocking out men two times their size while barely breaking a sweat. 

The fear on Riddler’s face doubles when he sees Batman. Bruce didn’t think it possible for the villain to be more afraid than he was with Joker, but he’s been wrong before. Riddler gasps when Bruce breaks the lock on the chains with just the tiniest dab of his explosive gel. The other man clearly expects retribution and pain, but when Bruce gently hoists him up, his face goes slack in shock. 

“You would grant me mercy?” he croaks.

Batman doesn’t answer, which is probably answer enough anyway. 

“Ohhhh Batsy.”

Joker appears from the catwalk up above, Harley hot on his heels. She is swinging her bat around, giggling like a schoolgirl. Her pet hyenas cackle beside her. Riddler flinches at the appearance of the other supervillain and turns his head away, shielding his eyes against The Batman’s suit. The irony is not lost on Bruce. 

“I’m so happy you’re home, sweetums,” the clown croons. 

Harley guffaws. “Yeah Bat Freak, welcome home!” 

Joker stiffens and turns towards Harley, violence oozing out of his every pore. “The men are talking.” It is the only warning she will get before he lashes out. 

Harley, for once, takes the hint and quiets down, though she pouts as she leans against the railing of the walkway. 

“I missed you, Bats.”

It is a sincere moment, and the clown almost sounds sane. His piercing green eyes stare down at him and Bruce sees the adoration there. Theirs is a volatile dance that will not end except in death.

Batman sets Riddler down, and the criminal curls up in a ball. “Get him to the hospital,” he growls to his sons, and they jump to listen. “And call Gordon.” The commissioner will take care of the unconscious goons. 

Batman turns back to Joker and they lock eyes. 

Joker _grins_ when he grapples up to the catwalk. 

* * *

The storm that rages across Gotham lights up the sky with streaks of lightning. The rain pounds heavily, soaking all who dare to venture outside. From behind the storm clouds the full moon shines brightly, casting an eerie glow on the city. Batman is perched at the top of Wayne Tower, surveying his home beneath him. 

Wayne Tower is not lit up anymore. The building is to be repurposed and renamed despite the many protests of the public. It doesn’t matter to Bruce. He has enough money to last him many lifetimes without the company’s funding. Despite the legacy of the Wayne family being lost, Bruce believes his parents would be proud of him. 

A barely there patter of footfall sounds behind him, but he doesn’t whirl around to see who it is. He’d know the sound of her footsteps anywhere. 

Selena hops up beside him, no fear as she angles herself up on the ledge next to him. Her smile is dazzling. “You came to your senses,” she says. There is a teasing lilt to her voice. Bruce takes no offense. 

“I was lost,” he admits. 

They’ve kissed in the rain so many times it’s almost a cliché. He reaches for her now, and the brush of her lips and the rain feels nothing like an overused trope. Selena molds herself against his body and they are lost, heady in the knowledge that they will do this again, and again, and _again_. 

“I love you,” he murmurs against her. It is not the first time he’s said it, but it might as well have been with how much he is feeling at the moment. 

A large crack of lightning illuminates her face, and her flirtatious smile is infectious. 

They leap from Wayne Tower as one, the Bat and the Cat disappearing into the night.

Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruce’s recovery was rushed, I’m sorry. I guess I’ll attribute the speed to him being The Batman. I lost steam (as I seem to do with all my work) towards the end of the story. I hope the conclusion is still satisfying. And thank you for sticking with this and reading!


End file.
